


Fearless Love

by alwayssomethingelse



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Songfic, Vaguely AU, stepney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:18:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwayssomethingelse/pseuds/alwayssomethingelse
Summary: This is not a songficbut if it were, I'd be encouraging you to have a listen to Melissa Etheridge'ssongof the same name...What if Stepney wasn't a lie to save Serena's blushes? And what if that day on the forecourt outside the hospital was not the first time Serena and Bernie had met, even if it takes them a while to remember?





	Fearless Love

There is something about Bernie Wolfe that Serena just cannot put her finger on. Something familiar, from the moment she clapped eyes on her, sauntering across the forecourt of the hospital, fag dangling, coat tails flapping. She feels like they’ve met somewhere in the past, but she can’t place where, or when. It can’t be recent – she’s been reading her fellow medic’s articles in the BMJ for long enough to have gotten excited (and therefore remembered) had they met at a Conference or networking event. They weren’t PRHOs together, or even in the same hospital – she’s checked, surreptitiously working in a query one day. Nor did Bernie study in Harvard, her face when Serena mentions the MBA programme is enough to evidence that. A brief trip up to HR, a sweet smile and some flattering words later indicate that it wasn’t at med school, either. And yet… 

The night after she’s told Bernie that they should _both leave it at home in future_ , Serena wakes in a hot sweat from a dream that seeps away from her memory like a wave caught on the beach. Gulping down the glass of water she keeps by the bed, she has to physically shake off the sensation of being 17 again, of too much Port and Lemon, and tender hands all over her skin. Dark brown eyes and soft lips glisten behind her eyelids, and Serena knows she’s seen them before. She groans her frustration into her pillow, and, despite her best efforts, doesn’t sleep another wink.

The dream comes again the night Serena arrives home newly suspended, right hand still tingling from a fight she should never have won. And again, after she proposes Bernie as co-lead to Hanssen, humbled by her own self-righteousness. After the fourth iteration of it (following a back massage that warmed up more than her hands) she lies in bed rigid, the heat of waking a moment before turned to a cold sweat. Now she remembers, albeit through a glass darkly, so to speak. There had been a night, it must have been thirty-three years ago… Stepney, her cousin’s 18th, a house party. A girl with mousey hair, a penchant for David Bowie, and a tongue that tasted of whiskey. She can’t remember her name, doesn’t think she ever discovered it. 

She had discovered other things that night though. Like the whisper of lips to the lobe of her ear, the bite of fingernails pulled down her back, the smooth of a tongue that made her long to cry out. And Serena had discovered that being called _angel_ by another woman was enough to make her come, panting and keening in the velvet dark of a tiny attic room, in a way that two previous boyfriends had completely failed to achieve. The next morning, Serena had also discovered that she didn’t want to be in a reality where that was a one off – but that she didn’t get a choice. Her cousin didn’t know who the girl who left at the spark of sunrise even was. A friend of a friend. Visiting, just happened to be there. And wasn’t anymore. 

Sarah had looked at her funny the third time she mentioned the girl, frustrated that no one knew her name. _”Careful Rena, or we’ll think you’ve gone queer.”_ she’d said, and switched on the TV just as an AIDS infomercial swept on to the screen, discordant tones and dramatic lettering jarring the headache pounding Serena’s skull. _”Know what I mean?”_

So Serena had gone home. Gone to school, to uni, to nightclubs with John, then Paul, then Michael, and then Edward. Nightclubs became cafes, cafes became restaurants, until one night there was a diamond on her finger and a grin on her mother’s face. And if, at times when Edward collapsed on top of her panting at how good she was, how perfect, how sexy, Serena felt an ache that she couldn’t quite place, she smiled it away as she whispered soft words in his ear. 

She shakes herself. So she’s dreaming about something that happened once, a long time ago, what of it? No point in getting het up. The flash of butter-soft brown eyes and dusky pink lips that make her think of Bernie is probably a dream world collision of past and present; or symbolic of the trust that she just can’t help granting her colleague, her friend. Serena keeps telling herself that as she settles back down to sleep, but the wetness between her legs speaks of more than simple trust. 

The dream comes again countless times over the following weeks; becomes such a frequent visitor that Serena misses it after the occasional absences. She still blushes when her brain reminds her of the similarities between her memory of the girl in Stepney and her best friend. Her best friend despite a variety of betrayals that, in any other relationship, Serena would never have forgiven. She still feels her cheeks flush the morning after when Bernie arrives in the office, coffees in hand, warmth in her eye. But each night, as she turns out the light, she hopes for just one more return; seeking an answer to a question she hasn’t quite formulated. 

When Bernie kisses her, after the day from hell, Serena kisses back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

That night, the dream is clearer than ever.

“Oh.” Eyes open wide in the darkness, hand fanned across cheek moves to forehead, to cheeks, to lips. “It _was_ you.”

But as the first morning of a long weekend off comes, and she hasn’t slept another wink, Serena doubts herself. It could just be her mind playing tricks on her, after all. And she doesn’t want to ruin this. 

The dream changes then. Jumps from sensuous and suggestive, flickering shards of memory, to explicit detail. Bernie Wolfe between her legs, lupine grin as she dips her mouth to Serena’s clit. Bernie Wolfe naked, straddling her with powerful thigh muscles and taut stomach. Bernie Wolfe making her come with nothing but two elegant fingers; taking them out afterwards to lick clean, never taking her eyes off Serena. And it is Bernie as she is now, not Serena’s hazy memory of a one-night drunken escapade. 

If it had been hard before, now it is almost unbearable. Back in work, Serena finds she can’t look at Bernie. Can barely speak straight.

 _There might be a reason for that…_ her treacherous brain tells her. Has she really fooled herself for this long? 

She slides in a reference to Stepney, half purposeful, half kicking herself even as the words leave her mouth. Bernie’s ‘back to business’ response could be disappointing, in that there’s no spark of recognition, but later Serena thinks she disturbs a pensive expression when Bernie’s face is turned. 

A one-way conversation with Fletch at his quietest somehow helps Serena put her thoughts in order. A pseudo aneurysm of the splenic artery gives her the means to invite Bernie for a drink after work – a usual enough occurrence, but not the way Serena is planning it. 

“Drinking in the hospital, you are a rebel.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“My kinda gal.”

Serena’s heart beats a little faster. She’s not sure what words come out of her mouth then, but apparently they’re not the carefully planned ones she’s spent at least a third of the afternoon thinking up.

“…You, dyed in the wool heterosexual…” 

She hears the laugh escape her, and tries to focus on what Bernie is saying now; feels her heart crumple when Bernie carefully moves to the other side of the room. Half a glass, and some inane prattle about the day that was later, and Serena finds herself breaking the silence. 

“Bernie, I, ah, it’s just…um.” She falters, swallows, thinks. “Stepney. Have you ever been to Stepney? A long time ago?” Watches closely as Bernie’s eyes cloud with memory. “I think you have. And you should know then that while I may have lost my way over the years” she rolls her eyes, “I’m not a _dyed in the wool heterosexual._ ” She lifts her glass to her lips, but doesn’t let her eyes drop from Bernie’s. Spots confusion, desire and fear chase each other across her face. 

It was her. Another lifetime ago, Bernie says. She hadn’t thought of it in years, she says. Hadn’t recognized Serena, or realized the connection (until today), she says. A summer holiday where she had been herself, before the rigours of family expectation had taken their toll. Before the regime of the army had cemented itself in her bones. Before she’d got burned in Afghanistan. But she does remember. 

They still leave it at that. Bernie still insists their friendship, their working relationship, is more important. Serena still goes home disappointed. She wills the dream, her familiar friend by now, to come again – to give her anything to cling on to – but to no avail. 

A few weeks go by. She sits with the idea of being… well, what? Not a dyed in the wool heterosexual? Post-heterosexual, as she heard some well known psychotherapist refer to it as? Lesbian? Bisexual? Someone who wants to shag Berenice bloody Wolfe to tatters? That thought comes late one Saturday night after a glass too many, and she chuckles harshly at the thought, before feeling her guts twist and her cheeks redden. But most of all, she sits with the memory of kissing Bernie. Longs to do it again. And again. But despite her best efforts, Bernie keeps her distance, and so does the dream. 

And then – then Bernie is given the opportunity to go to Kyiv, and Serena doesn’t know what else to do or say but to kiss her. To tell her that she recognizes the signs. To run after her across the ward, heedless of everything that she is afraid of (tittle-tattle, the rumour mill, gossip) and the potential repercussions. 

“That’s, that’s what you don’t want.” The words sting even now as she bangs her head against her hands. She’s not sure how long she sits there before Raf taps on the door, invites her down to Albies – ‘or somewhere else, if you’d prefer?’ She manages a smile, a twitch that doesn’t meet her eyes, and takes a rain check. Goes home, heart in her feet. Is halfway through opening a bottle of shiraz when she shakes herself. This is ridiculous. 

“Jason? I just have to go out. Don’t wait up.” 

He barely looks up from Mary Beard. “Don’t worry Auntie Serena, I won’t.” His calm acceptance is a balm. 

It’s the matter of minutes to drive to Bernie’s flat. One of her neighbours recognizes Serena and holds the external door for her, so Serena finds herself knocking on Bernie’s door, without having rung the bell.

“…Serena?” Bernie looks like she’s cried about as much as Serena has. “You, you shouldn’t be here.” She looks around wildly, trying to work out her options.

“Bernie. Listen to me. No… actually listen.” Would it be too much to take Bernie’s twitching arms in her hands, to still her, persuade her roving eyes to focus? “Please.” 

She nods, but doesn’t move from the doorway, body terse, expression panicked.

Serena sighs. _Alright then_. “I have spent my entire life afraid of who I am. Fooled myself into being someone else. I know you know what that’s like. But I am damned if I’m going to be afraid now, now that it all makes sense. And I won’t settle for anything less from you. No…” She puts a hand up as Bernie opens her mouth to protest. “…let me finish. You want positive language, fine. I want you, Bernie. I’ve wanted you for weeks, months even – though it took me a bit of time to make sense of it. And everything you’ve shown me says that you want me, but that you’re afraid…”

“…afraid of hurting y…” Bernie whispers.

“…No. You’re afraid of being hurt again. Oh come on Bernie, I know you. I’ve seen the fall out with Alex, with Marcus. You can use that as an excuse, and I’m not saying it isn’t true in part, but underneath it is a fear of being hurt yourself. And there’s no blame in that. I’m not denying that sometimes you just get burned, but if you can’t, if you can’t…” she stumbles as Bernie flattens herself to the doorframe and pulls Serena hastily into the flat, as Bernie greets the passing neighbor with a falsely cheerful wave. The door clicks shut behind them. “If you can’t hold on to me now, then no amount of running away is going to change anything. And I won’t settle for anything less.” She pauses, chest heaving, the reality of the ultimatum she’s just laid at Bernie’s feet ringing loud in her ears. 

Bernie stares at her for what seems like an age. Serena stares back, arms crossed, chin jutted out in determination. Finally, as she’s beginning to wonder if she should turn around, let herself out, Bernie begins to nod. 

“You’re right Serena, I am a coward.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “You weren’t the first night I met you.” 

“That was then, this is now. Anyway, I ran away then, too.”

“So you _are_ running away.”

“Not if… if you’ll meet me half way?” The appeal in Bernie’s eyes matches the hand she stretches towards Serena.

She nods, smiling. “I can do that.” 

Bernie’s eyes light up, and Serena feels herself gravitating towards her. _Magnets_ she thinks, in a moment of madness, _it’s like we have magnets inside us._

“Ok.” Bernie whispers, as Serena reaches out to stroke her hair, to run her fingers through tousled curls. 

“Ok.” Serena echoes, as she cups Bernie around the waist and pulls her closer. Fearless now, she leans in to brush her lips against Bernie’s – but finds herself captured in a deeper kiss, as Bernie’s hands, suddenly freed from some inner restraint, roam over her head, her neck, her back.

**Author's Note:**

> "post-heterosexual" is a term coined by Susie Orbach, the famous psychotherapist and feminist who is married to Jeanette Winterson, but was formerly married to a man. She uses it of herself.


End file.
